The Penitent Man
by KathyG
Summary: It is near the end of the events of the 4th-season episode, "The Lying Detective," and John is consumed with guilt over his recent assault on Sherlock, as well as fearful of Siger and Melisande Holmes's reaction. Will the elder Holmeses reject him or help him? One-shot. (This story is designed to fit into sgam76's "Scheherezade" universe.)


**The Penitent Man**

 **By KathyG**

 **Summary** **: It is near the end of the events of the 4** **th** **-season episode, "The Lying Detective," and John is consumed with guilt over his recent assault on Sherlock, as well as fearful of Siger and Melisande Holmes's reaction. Will the elder Holmeses reject him or help him?**

 **Author's Note** **: This story is designed to fit into sgam76's "** **Scheherezade" universe; to that end, I've borrowed her names for Sherlock's parents. Thank you, sgam76, for beta-reading my story!**

John leaned against the back of his sofa, his lower backside gently squishing a soft grey cushion that inclined against the back of his upholstered black-and-white-plaid sofa, his left hand gripping his glass; it was filled almost to the rim with whiskey. Its familiar bitter alcoholic scent wafted toward his nose. His right hand rested on his leg. In the corner of the living room next to the sofa, the table lamp shed a soft yellow light through the room; another lamp shed its own light from a table near the entrance door. As the retired army doctor raised the glass to his mouth, a familiar female voice sounded in his mind's ear.

' _You're not going to help yourself by doing that, John,'_ Mary's voice said. Lifting his head, John saw an image of his late wife in his mind's eye, leaning against the wall. Disapproval etched her face.

He sighed. "I can't help it, Mary. Not today." He shook his head, intense misery welling in his gut. "First, I've lost you, and now, through my own fault, I may have lost Sherlock. I have most certainly lost his parents and Mycroft. When Siger and Mellie find out what I did to Sherlock, they will never want to see me again, nor want me around their sons. Especially Sherlock." He shook his head. "Odds are that Mycroft will never want me around his brother, either. I don't deserve Sherlock anyway."

Only that morning, Sherlock had been discharged from hospital; he and Mycroft had left for Surrey to spend a few days with their parents while Sherlock continued his recovery. (It would take longer for Sherlock's cracked ribs to heal.) At John's insistence, Sherlock was going to tell Siger and Melisande about John's assault on him a few days before; John already knew that the elder Holmeses would want to know how their son had gotten so badly injured. Now that John was back to his usual self, he was horrified at the violence and injuries that he had inflicted on his best friend, not to mention the emotional anguish that he had also inflicted upon Sherlock by his rejection of him for so many days. If it had not been for Mary's posthumous charge to Sherlock to save John, and Mrs. Hudson's insistence that John see Sherlock, their estrangement might well have become permanent.

 _I'm not looking forward to hearing their reactions,_ he thought dully, as he began to toss off his whiskey. The earthy, caustic-tasting liquid burned his throat as he swallowed his first gulp of it. _They will surely hate me when they learn what I did to their son._ He sighed, as his discussion with Sherlock at the hospital shot through his memory…

" _My parents will want to know how I got hurt, John." Wincing in pain, Sherlock inserted his right arm into his right suit jacket sleeve with John's help. They were waiting for Sherlock's parents to come and get him, and for the sister to come with Sherlock's wheelchair, in order to take him out to the elderly Holmeses' car._

" _I know." John shook his head. "You had better tell them, Sherlock. All three of them." He bit his lower lip. "I_ should _be the one to confess, but I'm too cowardly to do it. They will hate me when they learn what I did to you, and so will Mycroft. I just don't have the courage to face that hatred." He paused, sighing heavily. "Not that I don't deserve it."_

 _Sherlock shook his head. "No, you don't." Thrusting his left arm into the other sleeve, he pulled his jacket around his front and buttoned it. "And they won't hate you."_

" _I don't see how they won't, Sherlock." John scratched his arm. "Especially Mellie; I've seen how fierce she can be, when she's being protective of you and Mycroft. She's like a mother bear protecting her cubs. She will most likely never want me near you again. Siger probably won't, either. And everyone who knows you and Mycroft knows how much he worries about you, and how protective he is of you. He will probably go to great lengths to keep me away from you after this."_

 _Sherlock did not answer. A sad expression crept into his eyes as he gazed at his best friend. John knew what that meant. As much as Sherlock wanted to reassure him on those points, John knew that he couldn't._

" _I'll tell you what they said, when it's over," Sherlock promised. John nodded…_

John took a deep, shuddering breath. _Sherlock's probably telling them right now, if he hasn't already finished doing so,_ the doctor thought. _At the very least, Mellie and Siger will never want me in their house again. At worst, they will want Sherlock to cut me out of his life. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Mycroft decided that's what he wants, too. What I don't know is whether they will succeed in persuading him to do that. Or whether Mycroft will use his power as the British Government to cut me out of his brother's life permanently._ He gazed down at his glass, and then glanced toward the door to Rosie's bedroom. _Just as well that I asked Mrs. Hudson to look after Rosie for me till tomorrow. I'm in no shape to take care of her. Not today._

John took another swallow of his whiskey, and another. Followed by yet another. Every mouthful burned his throat as he gulped it down. At the moment, he didn't care if he got thoroughly plastered. He kept clenching and unclenching his right hand and digging the toe of his shoe into the tufts of the soft grey wall-to-wall carpet. Anything that would get his mind off things, he would welcome. Meanwhile, the sun lowered in the sky.

As the afternoon progressed into evening, John's mind gradually became fuzzy. At one point, when his glass was empty, he rose to his feet to approach the kitchen entrance; to his dismay, a sharp pain shot through his right leg, causing it to buckle so that John was forced to grab onto the nearest piece of furniture for support. Swearing, the retired army doctor bent over to rub it, and then he limped across the living room into the kitchen and brought his two bottles of whiskey into the living room, where he refilled his glass almost to the rim.

John didn't bother to watch telly or read a book, nor did he attempt to ring anybody. He just sat on his sofa, drinking and trying not to think. Thinking would only bring back his intense guilt and the terrible prospect of the Holmeses' rejection. A buzz began to ring in his ears; it became harder and harder to form any coherent thoughts, even if he had wanted to. Nausea welled up in his throat. Outside, the sky grew dark.

Suddenly, his mobile phone rang. Clumsily reaching for it, John accidentally knocked it onto the carpet. Setting his glass on the coffee table, he bent over to pick it up; his shaking hand fumbled it before it managed to get a firm hold on its smooth, hard surface. Forcing himself back up into a sitting position, after three tries, he managed to switch it on. "H—hlloo?" he muttered, his voice slurred.

"John?" It was Molly's voice; she sounded concerned. "Are you all right?"

"Aw'right." John's voice slurred again. "Never b'betta."

"No, you're _not_ all right. You sound wasted, John. I'm coming over." Molly paused. "Uh, John, where's Rosie?"

"MsHuds…" John's voice trailed off.

"Mrs. Hudson? Baker Street?"

"Yis." John laughed shrilly for a moment, and then started weeping. "Rosie—Rosie's m'daughter. Goo—goo girl."

"I'll be right there." The phone disconnected, and John picked up his glass again.

 **XXXXXXX**

In the dark-green drawing room, Sherlock leaned against one of the soft cushions inclining the back of the sofa, sighing, staring at the flickering flames in the fireplace facing him, and listening to them crackle. His parents were standing to the side of the sofa, his father's face solemn, his mother's face etched with intense anger, Mycroft shaking his head in intense disapproval. John's fears were very close to being reality. While Sherlock was sure that his parents and brother did not hate John, it was clear that his mother was furious at the retired army doctor.

 _Good thing that John is not here, or she'd be blistering him with her tongue right now,_ he thought ruefully. _However, this has got to be resolved one way or another. Right now, though, since I promised John I would tell them what my parents said, I'd better call him now._

He reached for one of the phones of the Holmeses' landline. "What are you doing, Sherlock?" Mellie asked.

"Calling John." Sherlock looked her in the eyes. "I promised him I would tell him what you and Father and Mycroft said."

"I'm going to listen in," Mellie announced, as she stepped out into the hallway, her voice hard. "I want to know what that idiot boy has to say for himself."

A moment later, she returned with one of the other landline phones. Entering the red drawing room next to the one they were in, Siger returned with yet another, and Mycroft joined his father. Siger held the phone just a little way from his ear so that Mycroft could listen in.

With a nod, Sherlock rang John's phone number; it immediately began ringing. After three rings, a familiar female voice came on the phone. "Hello?"

Sherlock frowned. This wasn't John; this was Molly. What was she doing at John's flat? He glanced at his parents. "Molly? It's Sherlock." He leaned forward as his parents and Mycroft watched. "What's going on?"

Molly sighed. "Oh, Sherlock, John's in terrible shape! He's spent much of the afternoon and all this evening drinking whiskey; in fact, he's nearing acute alcohol poisoning. I just finished using a breath analyser to estimate his blood alcohol content, and it appears to be approaching 400 milligrams per litre." She paused. "I brought it to his flat when I heard over the phone how drunk John was."

Sherlock froze, leaning forward, horror surging in his gut. "Does his behaviour back up your estimate?"

"I'm afraid so, Sherlock." Molly choked back a sob. "If I hadn't arrived when I did, he would have soon gone into respiratory failure, possibly a coma. He could have died! And Sherlock—" Molly paused. "—his limp's back."

Sherlock shook his head. "What about Rosie?"

"She's at Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson. John took her there earlier today, asked Mrs. Hudson to look after her till tomorrow."

Sherlock exchanged a glance with Mycroft, whose brow was furrowed with consternation, and then with his parents. The rage on Mellie's face had been replaced with evident horror and concern. She and Siger nodded at each other, exchanging messages with their eyes in the process, and then they both nodded at Sherlock and Mycroft, both of who immediately understood what their parents intended to do. "Miss Hooper," Siger said, pressing his phone against his ear, "this is Sherlock's father, Siger Holmes. Sherlock and Mycroft are at our house as we speak. We're coming over to bring John to our house."

"We'll pick up Rosie while we're at it," Mellie added.

Molly sounded relieved. "If you would, I'd be most grateful! John's in no condition to look after himself or Rosie tonight, and I can't leave him alone."

"I agree," Sherlock said. "Once we leave, it will take us an hour to get to John's flat, but we will get there as soon as we can."

"I'll pack a bag for John, then, and see to it that Rosie's car seat is ready."

"Thank you," Mellie said.

 **XXXXXXX**

Molly paced the living room, glancing repeatedly toward John's bedroom. She had turned on the living room's overhead light and closed the window blinds as soon as she had arrived. At the moment, the doctor was sprawled in the chair in the corner of his bedroom, his head nodding, mumbling off and on.

John was not in a coma or in respiratory failure, thank goodness, but he _was_ exhibiting frequent mood swings. His speech was badly slurred; he was unable to make any sense when he spoke, and he limped and staggered when he tried to walk. It was clear that his right leg was once more hurting when he tried to put any weight on it. He couldn't remember leaving Rosie at Mrs. Hudson's as he had been able to when she had called him; she had kept having to remind him of where his baby daughter was. Several times, John had lapsed into and out of semi-consciousness. More than once, he had vomited into the dustbin that Molly had brought him. A mostly-empty glass containing the remains of now-warm water rested on the nightstand by his bed; she had insisted that he drink it earlier, to flush some of the whiskey out of his system. Since he was nauseated and vomiting, she had not attempted to make him eat anything.

 _I hope they get here soon!_ she thought, glancing frantically at her watch. _It's been well over an hour now. What's taking them so long?_

To her relief, there was a knock on the door; striding toward it, she swung it open. Sherlock, Mycroft, and their parents stood outside. "Sherlock! Thank goodness you're here! You, too, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. And Mycroft." She stepped back so that they could come inside. "Come with me, and I'll show you how much he drank before I came."

Mycroft leaned his umbrella against one of the armchairs, and then Molly led the way into the kitchen, where she flipped on the overhead light and pointed at two bottles of whiskey on the table. One was empty, and the other was over half-empty. "I haven't emptied the second one yet, because I wanted you to see first," she said. "This particular brand of whiskey contains fifty percent percentage of alcohol, and you can see for yourselves how much John has already drunk."

Sherlock nodded. "Well, I shall empty it now."

"No, _I_ will." Her lips set in grim determination, Mellie picked up the half-empty bottle and took it to the sink. Tipping it upside-down, she waited until the rest of the whiskey had poured down the sink. She handed it to Sherlock, who threw both bottles in the dustbin. Folding his arms across his chest, Mycroft shook his head.

Siger sighed. "Well, come on, then. We'd better go check on John before we do anything else."

Molly led the way toward John's bedroom, swinging it open. The overhead light had not been switched on, but a table lamp by the corner shed some soft light throughout the room. Siger and Mellie froze as they entered the bedroom, gaping at John, who was sprawled in his chair, slowly swivelling his head as he gazed at the floor.

"John Hamish Watson, just look at yourself!" Mellie scolded, advancing on the drunk doctor. Behind her, Sherlock's nose wrinkled as he inhaled the bitter smell of liquor on John's breath and the sour stench of vomit rising from the dustbin. Raising his head, John blinked a few times as he looked up at the Holmeses and Molly.

"Meh—Mell-ee…" John's voice broke off.

Joining his wife and inserting his thumbs in his pants pockets, Siger shook his head at John. "You're coming with us, John," he announced firmly. "You're in no shape to stay alone in your flat tonight, and Molly needs to go back to her home." With Mellie's help, he pulled John to his feet.

"Rose—Rose…" John's voice trailed off. "Rosie…"

"She's at Mrs. Hudson's, John, remember?" Molly told him. "You left her there earlier today." She turned to the Holmeses. "He keeps forgetting that he took her there earlier."

"We'll stop at Baker Street to pick her up," Mellie said. "And then, John, we're taking both of you to Surrey." Sherlock and Mycroft nodded agreement.

Molly smiled gratefully. "I'm so glad you are, Mrs. Holmes. I don't know what's wrong with John or why he did this, but if he's upset enough to drink himself into a stupor, he's upset enough that he needs someone to stay with him."

"I agree." Siger nodded agreement. "You said you've packed a bag for him?"

"Yes." Molly held up a navy-blue suitcase. "I didn't know how long he'd be staying at your house, so I took the liberty of packing a few changes of clothes for him."

"I'm glad you did. Thank you." Mellie smiled at her. "We also need to pack whatever Rosie will need." She followed Molly into Rosie's bedroom to pack the baby's clothes, baby bottle, formula, nappies, and rattle.

"Will Rosie need her high chair and playpen?" Molly asked.

Mellie shook her head. "Siger and Mycroft brought down our sons' old baby furniture before we left; that's why it took us so long to get here. The playpen is in the living room; the high chair is in the dining room; and the cot has been set up in the bedroom that Siger and I sleep in. Tomorrow, we'll set it up in the guest room where John's gonna sleep." Siger nodded agreement. Together, he and Mycroft helped John to his feet; he had to lean on them for support all the way out to the car. It was clear to Sherlock that more than drunkenness was causing John to favour his right leg; the psychosomatic pain had returned, as it was apt to do when he was under severe stress.

Minutes later, everyone was in the elder Holmeses' large, comfortable vehicle, John in the front seat with Sherlock and Mycroft, the car seat in the back seat for Rosie to occupy, and an extra dustbin at John's feet just in case he needed it. Siger and Mellie were in the back seat, one on each side of Rosie's car seat. They stopped at Baker Street to pick up Rosie; Mrs. Hudson was distressed when she learned about John's condition.

"John and Sherlock were in that same condition on John's stag night," she whispered, as she handed the baby to Mellie. "The poor things were in sad shape when they came back home the next morning. I'm so glad John's going to be with you while he's getting over his hangover."

Mellie nodded agreement. "He won't be forced to face it alone, Martha," she promised. "We'll see to that, and we'll look after Rosie while he's recovering." Mrs. Hudson smiled her thanks.

Mellie carried the baby to the car, followed by Siger; after they had fastened Rosie into the car seat, they left for Surrey. Continuing to repeatedly raise and drop his head, John periodically mumbled things that either made no sense or that none of the others could understand.

An hour after they had picked up Rosie, the Holmeses pulled up into their driveway. While Mellie unfastened Rosie from her car seat and picked her up, Mycroft removed John's suitcase from the boot, and Siger helped the drunk doctor out of the car and assisted him into the large, pink, two-story house, with John leaning on him for support all the way.

"Mycroft is staying here with Sherlock this time, John, so you'll be sleeping in one of the guest rooms," Siger told him. Blinking rapidly, John nodded. Sherlock wondered how much John understood of what Siger had just told him, or whether he would even remember it. Together, after Mellie put Rosie to bed in the cot, which had been set up in her and Siger's bedroom on the first floor, the entire family and John went down the hall and into a guest room, the one closest to Sherlock's bedroom.

Mellie drew the bedcovers down. Mycroft set John's suitcase on the chair and left the room, followed by Mellie. As Sherlock, whose ribs were in the process of mending, watched, Siger undressed John and clad him in his pyjamas, and then helped him into bed, making sure that he was lying on his side. The retired army doctor rested the side of his head on the fine Egyptian-cotton pillowcase that matched in colour and quality the bottom sheet that John was resting on and the folded-back top sheet. Siger drew the soft covers over the doctor's shoulders, and then he set a dustbin next to the bed by the doctor's head. All the while, John's movements were jerky and uncoordinated, and he kept blinking.

"Go to sleep, John," Sherlock told him. "Sleep it off." Mumbling, John closed his eyes. Sherlock and Siger left the room, leaving on the table lamp across the room but turning off the lamps and the overhead light. Except for the light pouring through the doorway, forming a rectangle on the floor, darkness filled the bedroom.

Sherlock and Siger joined Mellie and Mycroft downstairs in the kitchen a few minutes later. The overhead flooded the kitchen with light. Slowly and carefully, Sherlock lowered himself into a cushioned armchair next to one of the cabinets, close to the table, the cushion on his seat sinking underneath him as he sat on it. He rested his elbows on its wooden arms and folded his hands under his chin in their usual prayer position. The others gathered around him, Mycroft removing his suit jacket and taking his seat in one of the chairs surrounding the table; he turned it to face Sherlock and the others. Their parents remained on their feet, one on each side of their two sons who sat facing each other.

"I don't believe it," said Mellie, shaking her head, intense disapproval etching her face, her hands on her hips. "What on earth was John thinking, anyway?!"

Sorrow creased Sherlock's forehead. "He was thinking that you and Father and Mycroft were all going to hate him, Mummy," he said sombrely. "And that you were never going to want him around me again. That's what he was thinking."

Mellie exchanged a glance with Siger and sighed. "Well, I don't. _We_ don't," she said, and Siger and Mycroft nodded agreement. "I _am_ very angry at him for what he did to you, son, but I don't hate him."

Pressing his fingertips against his forehead, Mycroft sighed. "None of us do." With a wan smile, Siger inclined his head in agreement.

Sherlock smiled. "That is good news, Mummy and Mycroft, but he doesn't know that."

"Well, we're going to have to tell him that, then," Siger said. "Tomorrow, after he has slept it off."

"He's going to have a terrible hangover when he first wakes up," Mycroft said, raising his hands and spreading them out as he spoke. "And his limp is back. I'm not at all sure he will be in any shape to receive a what-for."

"He'll be in good enough shape to learn how we feel towards him," Siger told his older son. "As for the rest, that will have to wait until he has recovered from his hangover."

"He was _very_ foolish to think that drinking himself into a stupor was going to resolve the issue," Mellie said, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval.

"I agree." Leaning back, Mycroft folded his arms across his chest. "But Dr. Watson wasn't thinking straight today; under any other circumstances, he would have been in perfect agreement with you. He saw how drinking affected his father and how it has affected his sister, and I'm sure he hasn't forgotten the shape he and Sherlock were in following his stag night before his wedding last year. Unfortunately, Mummy, Dr. Watson has faced a danger night this evening, as Sherlock on occasion has." He sighed. "Except for recently, following Mary's death, every time my brother, here, faced a danger night, Dr. Watson was always there to help him through it. But tonight, no one was there to help Dr. Watson through his. Sherlock and I were here with you, and apparently, Dr. Watson didn't go to the trouble of telling any of his other friends that he was in need of help and support."

Sherlock nodded agreement, dropping his hands into his lap. "At least, he had the presence of mind to realize that he wasn't going to be able to look after Rosie today, so he asked Mrs. Hudson to look after her overnight."

Siger exchanged a look with Mellie, who nodded. "Well, it's good that John understood that he needed someone else to look after his daughter in the shape he was in, but he should not have tried to face this alone," he said. "Not if he was going to attempt to drown his fears and his guilt with whiskey. Mellie and I are going to talk to him tomorrow, after he has recovered from his hangover, and not only about what he did to you, Sherlock."

"We certainly are." Mellie nodded emphatically. Glancing at the clock, she added, "Come on, everyone, we had better go to bed. Rosie's already in her cot, and your father and I had better join her."

"I'm going to stay in John's room tonight, Mummy, in case he wakes up," Sherlock said, carefully rising to his feet. "I'm not sure that he will remember us bringing him here, and he's sure to be disoriented when he does awaken." He left the kitchen to go upstairs to John's guest room, followed by the others.

 **XXXXXXX**

John felt nauseous, and his head throbbed. He squeezed his eyes tighter twice. _So thirsty,_ he thought, as he winced. _Don't feel so good. I feel like I'm going to throw up._ He took a deep, shuddering breath as he tried to control his nausea and refrain from vomiting; to his relief, while the nausea did not disappear altogether, the nearly-uncontrollable urge to throw up subsided shortly. _Rosie. Where's Rosie?_ He winced in pain.

"You're awake, I see," a too-loud, familiar baritone voice said next to his head. Its volume made him wince again.

John opened his eyes; the blurry room was spinning, and the light hurt his eyes. But—this wasn't his room! Where was he? Sherlock was sitting in a chair next to the bed, gazing at him intently. What was Sherlock doing there? Wherever _there_ was?

"Sher—Sherlock?" John mumbled. After blinking hard several times to clear his vision, he scanned the side of the bedroom that he faced without moving his head; the room kept spinning. He reached up to clutch the side of his head. "Where—where are we?"

"At my parents' house. We brought you here last night." Sherlock bent forward. "We also stopped at Baker Street to pick up Rosie; she's downstairs with Mummy and Mycroft. Since my brother's also here, you're sleeping in one of the guest rooms this time."

"Oh." John squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, to block out the sunlight. It felt as if a drum was pounding in his head. "You—you brought me here?" His voice still came out in a mumble. "And who's 'we'?"

"Mycroft, our parents, and myself. We all came to your flat to bring you to our house."

"We certainly did." Siger came into the line of John's vision. "You were in very bad shape last night, John; it's extremely lucky that Molly went to your flat to see you when she did. It was she who took the call when Sherlock, here, tried to ring you."

"Oh." John squeezed his eyes shut again. "Could you whisper? Sorry, the light hurts my eyes."

"I'm not surprised, John. You've got one nasty hangover." Siger drew the bedcovers down. "No, I'm not going to whisper, John, but I won't shout either. If you're going to be drinking, you should be eating and drinking some water first. You did neither yesterday, didn't you, until Molly visited you?"

"No. Wasn't hungry yesterday." John forced his eyes open. "You didn't need to bring me here, Siger."

"Actually, John, we did." Siger gently helped the hungover doctor upwards into a sitting position; with difficulty, John managed to swing his legs over the side of the now-crumpled bed. "You were in no shape to be left by yourself last night, and Molly needed to get home."

John hung his head, wincing as a bolt of pain shot through his head. "Thank you."

Siger softly grasped the doctor's upper arm. "Come on, John. Time to get up. You need some breakfast. Mellie has some antacid and aspirin waiting for you."

' _You know what you're going to have to do, John,'_ Mary's voice said in his mind's ear. _'You're going to have to be honest with them._ And _with yourself.'_ In his imagination, John saw her standing behind Sherlock. Sighing, he nodded, and then turned his attention back toward Sherlock and Siger.

The room spun as John rose to his feet with Siger's help; immediately, intense pain shot through his right leg, forcing it to buckle, so Siger wrapped his arm around John's waist. Listlessly, the retired army doctor accompanied the two out the door and down the hall, limping and staggering; Siger kept an arm around John's waist as they slowly and carefully descended the stairs. The doctor kept closing his eyes to block out the too-bright light as they approached the kitchen. His whole body trembled nonstop, and his leg kept throbbing as he put weight on it. Siger helped him to sit down at the kitchen table. "Thank you," he mumbled in a low voice, hanging his head, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the too-bright sunlight pouring in through the windows. He wished they had blinds. Fortunately, the pain in his right leg soon subsided.

John sat slumped, his head drooping, repeatedly squeezing his eyes, and clenching and unclenching his left hand nonstop. Memories were coming back to him now, and he hated it. He knew, now, that the day before, Sherlock had told his parents and Mycroft what John had done to him. _I'm surprised they even bothered to bring me here,_ he thought dully. _Unless it's to ream me out. I'm sure that Mellie, especially, can't wait to do that! Well, it's no more than I deserve, I know._

"John." A hand rested on his shoulder, shaking it. As John opened his eyes, Mellie set a glass of water, a couple of aspirin tablets, and an antacid tablet on the table before him.

"Thank you," he mumbled again, putting the aspirin into his mouth and washing the pills down with the water. That done, he unwrapped the antacid tablet and plopped it into the water; it fizzed, forming numerous tiny air bubbles that rose to the surface. Wincing again as his head continued to pound, John raised the glass to his lips and started drinking the fizzing, bitter-tasting antacid. Siger and Sherlock took their own seats next to him, one of each side of the table. John did not look at them, or at Mellie.

"Where's Rosie?" he mumbled, staring down at the glass.

"Your daughter's in our sons' old playpen in the living room, so she's all right. Mycroft's with her," Siger told him. John nodded, but did not look up.

When he had finished the antacid, Mellie set a gleaming white china cup of steaming-hot coffee on a snow-white saucer in front of him. Both the cup and the saucer had blue floral patterns. "Thank you," he mumbled again, still looking down. He picked up the cup and took his first sip; to his relief, the coffee contained no sugar. As he sipped it again, the smell of eggs frying reached his nose from the stove at one end of the kitchen.

After John had finished his coffee, Mellie took the cup and saucer, and set a plate of breakfast food and a glass of orange juice in front of him. Forcing his eyes open and blinking yet again, John noticed that it consisted of a full English breakfast. _'You need to eat, John,'_ Mary's voice said in his mind's ear. _'You've had nothing to eat since supper day before yesterday.'_ In his mind's eye, she stood at his side; he nodded agreement.

"Thank you," he said to Mellie again in a low mumble, still not looking up at her. "You're very kind." Picking up the knife with his right hand and the fork with his left, he started to eat.

 _She hasn't said a word to me yet, except for "John",_ he thought. _I'm not looking forward to it, either. Still, I must bear it when it comes._

The food tasted good, and so did the orange juice; silently, he finished it all. When his plate and glass were empty, Mellie took them and carried them to the sink under one of the windows. "You had better go back to bed, John," she said, not unkindly. "You need to sleep off your hangover."

Nodding, John slowly and carefully rose to his feet, grasping the edge of the table to keep his balance, and wincing as intense pain shot through his right leg. Siger grasped his upper arm to keep him from falling. He and Sherlock accompanied John back upstairs to his guest bedroom, where Siger tucked him under the covers again.

"Sleep, John," Sherlock said. Nodding, John sank his head against the pillow's smooth cover, closed his eyes, and drifted off.

When he woke up again, the throbbing in his head and the nausea had completely subsided. He opened his eyes. To his relief, so had the dizziness.

Grunting, John pushed back the soft covers and swung his legs over the side. This time, he was alone in the room. He looked at the clock on the nightstand; it was early afternoon. With a sigh, he managed to rise to his feet; to his dismay, the sharp, intense pain immediately shot through his leg, causing it to buckle yet again. Limping badly and wincing, he approached the mirror, grabbing hold of the dresser for support.

 _You're a sight for sore eyes,_ he thought, as he looked at his reflection. _You still have to face Sherlock's parents and possibly Mycroft as well, and that's going to be most unpleasant. Still, that's no more than you deserve, you git!_

' _You've been a sight for sore eyes ever since I died, John,'_ Mary said in his imagination. _'If it hadn't been for Mrs. Hudson, you'd still be cutting yourself off from everybody, especially Sherlock.'_ John grimaced. The Mary in his head was all too correct!

A knock on the door startled him. "Come in," he said; to his relief, his voice sounded stronger than it had that morning. The door swung open, and Sherlock entered the bedroom.

"You're feeling better," he said, observing his friend. "Except for your leg, that is," he added, looking down at John's right leg. "Your psychosomatic limp has returned."

John smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid you're right. But aside from my leg, physically, yeah," he said. "Otherwise, not so much." He sighed. "I deserve it, though, I know."

"My parents want to talk to you," Sherlock said. "Let's go." John nodded, and Sherlock held out an umbrella to John. "Mycroft asked me to loan you this, in case you needed it." Smiling his thanks and nodding, John took the umbrella; leaning on it, he followed his friend, limping out the door and down the stairs to the ground floor.

"Here he is," Sherlock announced, as he and John entered the green drawing room, a limping John leaning on Mycroft's umbrella. Siger, Mycroft, and Mellie rose to their feet, with Mellie holding Rosamund.

"Mycroft, would you take Rosie to the kitchen?" she asked her older son.

Mycroft nodded. "Certainly." He took the baby from his mother and turned to John. "Listen to them, Dr. Watson," he said. "It's important." Sighing, John nodded acquiescence, and Sherlock and Mycroft left the room, Mycroft carrying Rosie.

Siger gestured toward the sofa. "Have a seat, John."

Sighing, John sank down onto the grey sofa's soft cushions; he winced, shut his eyes, and sucked in his breath as another bolt of intense pain shot through his right leg; unknown to him, the elder Holmeses exchanged sombre glances before taking their own seats in a pair of armchairs that faced the ends of the sofa, one near each side of the living room, resting the umbrella against the sofa. The cushion covering the seat sank underneath him as John opened his eyes and leaned back; one of the other cushions lay propped behind his back. Usually, he kept his back straight and his shoulders held back as the army had taught him, but at this time, he didn't have the strength to maintain his usual military posture. He slumped his shoulders, slouched his back, and gazed down at the floor; to his relief, the pain in his leg subsided. He clenched and unclenched both hands nonstop, staring down at them.

"John," Mellie said sternly, "look at me." John raised his head to face her, not surprised to see the expression of disapproval in her eyes.

 _Here it comes,_ he thought dully, resigned to the inevitable. _I deserve it, I know, so I had better take it like a man._ He briefly scanned the room. _At least the light doesn't hurt my eyes now, and the pain in my leg has subsided for the moment. And my head feels much better,_ he thought, as he looked from window to window, gazing at the sunlight pouring through them.

' _Listen to them, John,'_ Mary's imaginary voice spoke in his mind's ear, as her image appeared to lean against the wall across the room. _'Mycroft's right. It_ is _important.'_ He looked up at her, and then at Siger and Mellie.

"John, before we say anything else," Siger said, "we want you to know that we do _not_ hate you. We _are_ displeased with you, yes, just as we would be with Mycroft if he had assaulted his brother. But none of us hate you, and we don't want you cutting yourself off from Sherlock again. That will only hurt you both."

John relaxed. "Thank you, Siger." He laid his now-relaxed hands on his lap.

"Yes. And with that said—" Mellie shook her head at him. "John Hamish Watson, that was absolutely foolish!" She shook her index finger at him for emphasis. "OD-ing on whiskey the way you did last night!"

Leaning forward, John furrowed his eyebrows in puzzlement as he stared at her. This was _not_ the way he had expected his scolding to go!

"John, we understand why you did that," Siger added, leaning forward. "But Mellie is right. That was _very_ foolish. I don't know if you're aware of this, but you came close to dying last night."

John shook his head, rubbing his eyes. "Then why wasn't I taken to hospital?"

"Molly got to your flat soon enough to stop you from reaching that point," Siger said. "She used a breath analyser on you, and she estimated that while you were nearing the critical level in your intoxication, you weren't quite there yet. Had you been in a coma or in respiratory failure, she would have immediately rung an ambulance." He folded his hands in his lap. "Rosie has already lost one parent, John. She does not need to lose the other."

Leaning back against the cushion behind him, his shoulders still slumped and his back still slouched, John looked at him and Mellie in bewilderment. An amused smile crept across Siger's face. "Yes, John, we still care about you, and so does Mycroft. That has not changed, and it never will. You have become like a son to Mellie and me, and so we will treat you as we would one of them, if one of them were to make a serious mistake. We are going to have a talk about what you did to Sherlock, but right now, this comes first."

"It certainly does," Mellie added.

With another sigh, John dropped his head and nodded. "Yes, Siger. I know you're right, and I apologize. I _am_ sorry, and not just for getting so drunk last night." He clenched and unclenched his left hand again.

"We know you are." Siger's voice softened. "And with that said, John, Mellie and Mycroft and I could all scream and holler at you for the rest of this day and all day tomorrow for what you did to Sherlock recently, as you're expecting us to do, but we're not going to do that because we know that you _are_ sorry. But we still need to discuss it, nevertheless." Rising to his feet, he approached John and sat down next to him on the sofa. "We need to find out, you and Mellie and me, what brought that on." John moved down the couch to make room for Siger, careful to avoid putting any weight on his right leg.

' _Be honest with him, John,'_ Mary told him in his mind's ear. In his mind's eye, she was standing at the side of the sofa.

Biting his lower lip and gazing down at the soft carpet at his feet, John clenched and unclenched his left hand yet again, and pressed his right hand against the cushion he sat on, as he took several deep breaths in an effort to summon his courage. At last, he raised his head and looked at Siger. "I was—I was messed up. Thoroughly," he said, at last. "I was angry, and I was grief-stricken, when Mary died."

"Were you angry at Sherlock?" Siger's voice was gentle.

Biting his lower lip again, John nodded. "Sherlock had promised that he would look after the three of us: Mary, Rosie, and me. He had promised to protect us, to keep Mary safe. When she took that bullet and died, all I could think was that Sherlock had failed to keep his word."

Lowering his head again, John paused. He gazed down at his hands; both of them were clenched now. His back remained slouched, and his shoulders remained slumped. "But it was more than that," he said after a moment. "There were a couple of factors that went into my reaction toward Sherlock the other day."

"What were they?" Siger asked.

With a sigh, John gazed down at his lap for a long moment, and then looked from Siger to Mellie. "I'll confess, Siger and Mellie: one of them, I'm afraid to share with you."

"Why?" Mellie tilted her head.

John smiled wryly; no smile entered his eyes. "I know you love Sherlock and Mycroft, both of you. And I know how defensive parents can get when their children are criticized."

Siger and Mellie exchanged a look. "John, if sharing this with us will resolve one of those two factors, you have our word that we will not take umbrage at you for sharing it with us." Siger touched John's arm. "Please tell us."

John nodded. "Sherlock's been my friend ever since we first met," he said. "I want you to know that. We have had each other's backs all that time. Sherlock has saved my life more than once." He paused. "And with that said…" He bit his lower lip, and then cleared his throat. "Suffice it to say that Sherlock is not exactly the easiest person to live with." He grimaced.

To his relief, neither Mellie nor Siger exploded in anger. "We know that, John," Siger told him. "We raised him, don't forget, so we are well aware of both of our sons' eccentricities and quirks. And we are also aware that Sherlock's eccentricities make it difficult for him to get along with others."

John nodded agreement. "Yes. That's it, exactly." He went on to share with the elder Holmeses some of the things that Sherlock had said or done through the years that had aroused John's annoyance and irritation, as well as how John had dealt with his anger on each of those occasions. Siger and Mellie listened attentively, making no comments.

At last, John paused. "Suffice it to say that, over the years, my anger built up. It must have gone right on building up even when I thought I was rid of it. Till it erupted that other day. Till _I_ erupted." He shook his head. "But those two reasons I gave you are not the only ones," he added. "I also blamed myself. I was also angry with myself." He looked at Siger. "I was feeling guilty."

"Why was that?" Siger gazed into his eyes.

John shook his head. "Because, before Mary died, I wronged her. And I never had a chance to make it right." He looked toward the side of the sofa. Mary's mental image had disappeared from his mind's eye. He turned his gaze back to Siger and Mellie, looking from one to the other.

Siger tilted his head. "What was it you did that was wrong?"

John took a deep breath. "I—I cheated on her, Siger. Kind of."

Siger nodded. "And how did you do that?"

Taking another deep breath, John told him about the pretty woman he had met on the bus: how she had given him her phone number, and how they had repeatedly texted each other whenever Mary had been away from John. Siger and Mellie listened attentively as John explained it.

"That's all it was, Siger," John said at last. "Just texting, but I wanted more, shame on me." He shook his head, misery and intense guilt filling his gut. "I could have so easily destroyed our marriage." He bit his lower lip and stared down at the floor.

"How did it turn out, in the end?"

Lifting his head to meet Siger's gaze, John sighed. "I finally sent her one last text, telling her it wouldn't work, that it wouldn't end well. That was the end of it." He paused. "I was going to tell Mary, to 'fess up. But I never had a chance to. Just as I was about to confess to her, Sherlock texted us both, telling us to meet him at the London Aquarium. You know how that turned out." Gazing back down at the carpeted floor, he shook his head. "I never had a chance to tell her after that."

Siger nodded. "And you've been carrying the guilt for that ever since." John nodded in his turn, still staring down at the floor. "Did you talk with anybody about how you were feeling, after she died?"

"No." John sighed. "Except to ask Molly to look after Rosie, and to give Sherlock a message for me, I saw no one until I started seeing a new therapist a short time ago." He bit his lower lip. "I was downright nasty toward Sherlock in that note I left for Molly to give to him."

Siger nodded again. "So, in other words, you basically cut yourself off from everyone you knew." He paused. "Especially Sherlock." Biting his lower lip, John nodded again, looking down at the floor. The elderly Holmes added, "Until Mrs. Hudson brought Sherlock to your therapy appointment and persuaded you to have a look at him."

John nodded. "Yes." Biting his lower lip, he raised his head to look at Siger. "In my heart, things came to a head when we were in that morgue. I will not attempt to excuse what I did, Siger." Biting his lower lip again, he gazed down at the floor once more. "I can only try to explain it."

"John, look at me." John raised his head again and looked into Siger's eyes. "Are you still blaming Sherlock for Mary's death?"

John shook his head. "No," he said. "Not anymore. It wasn't his fault; I know that now. Mary took the bullet for him, to save his life. She gave her life to save his."

Once again, he dropped his head and bit his lower lip. "And I nearly took it." He took a deep, shuddering breath.

Siger shook his head. "Not exactly, John." A sad expression crept across his face. "Sherlock did that to himself. He came close to OD-ing on the drugs he was taking before you beat him up. And while you did inflict injury on him, which Mellie and I strongly disapprove of—" He raised his index finger for emphasis. "—none of the injuries you inflicted were potentially fatal."

He touched John's arm. "Hopefully, the anger that's been building up within you all these years has been drained now, so it will no longer fester in your heart as it's been doing. You need to learn how to deal with your anger, John, so that it won't fester again." John nodded agreement. He did indeed need to learn how to do that.

Siger paused, and John cleared his throat. "Sherlock told us about that incident in the morgue, and what led up to it," Siger added. "He told us about his own assault on Culverton Smith in that morgue, and how you tried to stop him. He made no attempt to spare himself, John, just as you have not attempted to spare yourself during our discussion. He also told us about the DVD Mary sent him, and how you saved his life when Culverton Smith tried to smother him to death."

Smiling wryly, John nodded. "That was the least I could do. Mrs. Hudson and I also watched that DVD, so I know now what Sherlock was doing, and why. Guess Mary was right. Once she was dead, I _did_ need saving."

"I'd say you did," Siger said dryly, and his wife nodded agreement. "Mellie and I don't approve of what Sherlock did, either—his assault on Smith _or_ the drug-taking—but we understand why he did it." John grimaced. "Have you told him yet that you no longer blame him?"

John shook his head. "Not yet."

"Well, you should." Siger laid a hand on John's arm.

John nodded agreement. "You're right, Siger. I definitely should. And I will."

' _That a boy!'_ In his mind's ear, Mary's approving voice seemed to come from across the room, behind Mellie. He glanced up at her mental image's approving smile, and then turned back to Siger.

He added, "I have much to make up for, I know. To Sherlock."

"Yes, you do," Siger agreed, exchanging a glance with his wife. "Mellie and I will leave it to you and Sherlock to decide how you will do that, but you most definitely _do_ need to make things up with him. And John—" Siger again raised his index finger for emphasis. "—you will _not_ be able to make things right with Sherlock by drinking yourself into a stupor. You will only hurt yourself by doing that. And you will hurt those who love you; you will certainly hurt Sherlock because he cares about you. And Rosie."

Siger leaned toward John to emphasize his point. "Don't do that again, John. Among other things, don't forget that you have a daughter who needs you." He raised his index finger again for further emphasis.

Sighing, John nodded acquiescence. With a smile of approval, Siger patted his arm and stood up. "I will go check on Sherlock and Mycroft now, and see how Rosie is doing." He left the room.

For a few moments, John and Mellie sat in silence, John clenching and unclenching his left hand nonstop again, his back still slouched and his shoulders still slumped, Mellie watching him from her armchair with her index finger resting on her chin. John scanned the living room. It was such a relief that he could once more bear the sunlight filling the room; it was a lovely sight. But there was still a stone weighing heavily in his gut, and he faced the very real prospect of his psychosomatic limp returning as soon as he stood up.

Soon, with a sigh, Mellie rose to her feet and joined John on the sofa. "John," she said, leaning back and crossing her legs, "I'm not going to continue the discussion with you about your assault on Sherlock, because my husband has already said everything about that incident that needs to be said. But we do need to discuss a few more things about last night." John nodded.

Mellie shifted position. "John, part of the problem with both issues—your assault on Sherlock _and_ your over-drinking yesterday—is that you have a tendency to cut yourself off from others when you're hurting, and you tend to bottle up your emotions. By your own admission, you've repeatedly pushed back your irritation toward Sherlock through the years, and whenever you did release your anger, you did it in ways that were not healthy for either of you." She paused. "You did both of those things during the weeks following Mary's death. You bottled up your emotions, and you cut yourself off from everybody, especially Sherlock, until Mrs. Hudson brought Sherlock to you; as a result, as you said, in your heart, things came to a head in the morgue that day." She paused again. "And then you did it again yesterday, when you thought that Siger and Mycroft and I were going to hate you and seek to cut Sherlock off from you. You turned to the bottle as a result."

John sighed. "That's true." He looked down at his hands and clenched his left fist yet again. "I found it nearly impossible to sleep during those weeks. Molly looked after Rosie during that time, because I was in no shape to care for her. And yesterday wasn't the first day I turned to the bottle." He didn't add that he had been communicating with an imaginary Mary throughout that time.

"I thought so." Mellie paused. "John, look at me," she ordered, her voice firm but not unkind. He returned his gaze to her. "When you were growing up, you and Harry couldn't turn to your parents when you were hurting, I know. Neither of them was ever there when you and your sister needed them. Furthermore, your father set both of you children a very bad example with his drinking, and with his own control of his temper. You've been carrying a lot of anger through the years, even before you met Sherlock, and even though you've gone to great lengths to control it most of the time." John nodded.

"And you probably didn't turn to others as a child, either, did you? After all, you admitted to me during your second visit to our house that you and your family were always careful to never let the neighbours know. ***** You didn't really feel that you had anyone you _could_ turn to, did you?"

John grimaced. "True on all accounts, Mellie."

Mellie leaned toward him. "John, there's one thing you need to know: that is not true anymore. You _do_ have others you can turn to now. It is no longer necessary to keep your problems a secret, or to bottle up your feelings. You don't need to let them fester anymore. I understand that you couldn't come to us yesterday, but you do have other friends you could have confided in. Mrs. Hudson. Molly. Detective-Inspector Lestrade. Any one of them would have helped you out if you had asked."

John sighed. "I did stop by Baker Street and ask Mrs. Hudson to look after Rosie."

"Yes, you did, but did you tell her why?"

Another sigh. "No," he said. "I just told her I wasn't in any shape to look after my daughter yesterday. She didn't insist on my explaining why."

Mellie tilted her head. "Perhaps you _should_ have told her, John." She paused. "At the very least, you should have told _one_ of your friends. And you should have let your emotions out instead of seeking to hide them even from yourself. That would have been a much better way of dealing with the problem than almost drinking yourself to death was."

John took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes, Mellie. You're right."

"I mean it, John." Mellie wagged her finger. "That's exactly what I want you to do, after this, what we _all_ want you to do. When you're hurting inside, _don't_ cut yourself off from those who care about you anymore." She paused as a hard expression crept into her eyes. Sternly, she said, "It goes without saying that I do _not_ want to find Sherlock in the condition he was in recently, with the injuries you inflicted on him, when he was admitted to hospital."

John nodded. "Yes, Mellie."

Mellie looked him in the eyes. "I also don't want to find _you_ in the condition _you_ were in last night, which you inflicted on yourself. There's to be no more excessive drinking to cope with your troubles, John. That will only cause you more trouble, and not just to you personally." She gave him a gimlet eye. "Do I have your promise on that, John?"

Sighing, John nodded acquiescence. "Yes, Mellie. You have my promise." As he kept clenching and unclenching his left hand once again, Mellie laid a hand on it and gently squeezed it; his hand relaxed under her touch.

' _Well done, John!'_ In his mind's ear, Mary's approving voice resonated throughout his heart. In his mind's eye, he saw her beaming at him behind Mellie.

"Good." Mellie's voice softened as she continued, "I told you during your second visit here that I have fair rein to be meddlesome with you, as I do with my own sons. ***** Siger and I care about you as if you _were_ one of our own sons, and we care about Rosie as if she were our own granddaughter. If it ever comes to my attention that you have attempted once again to drown your sorrows, I _will_ meddle, John, just as we did this time."

She paused. "Siger and I really _do_ care about you and Rosie, and we do not want you to destroy yourself, _or_ hurt Rosie. I know you don't want to hurt your daughter, but if you keep turning to alcohol to drown your sorrows, you will. The next time you're hurting, if, for some reason, you can't turn to Sherlock or one of your other friends, I want you to ring us. You have our number, John."

John looked her in the eyes and smiled wryly, his shoulders still slumped. "Even if—even if it should happen to be in the—the middle of the night?"

"Even then," Mellie said firmly. "If calling us in the middle of the night will save you from turning to the bottle for comfort, it will be well worth it."

John looked at her gratefully. "Th—thank you." His voice choked. Smiling, Mellie patted his arm.

"Now, then," she said, rising to her feet, "let's go check on Rosie, shall we?" With a nod, John stood up; that time, to his relief, his leg didn't hurt, so he left the umbrella where it was. To his surprise, Mellie turned on him and laid her hands on his still-slumped shoulders and turned him toward her. "Now, John," she chided, "I know that the army didn't teach you to slouch your back, _or_ to slump your shoulders."

Smiling sheepishly, John straightened his posture and held his shoulders back once more, as he typically did. "That a boy." With an approving smile, Mellie patted his shoulder. Glancing down at his leg, she added, "And I am so glad the psychosomatic pain in your leg is gone once more." With a relieved expression, John nodded agreement. Smiling more widely, with their shoes making soft thuds in the carpet, he followed her into the bright-red living room and toward the kitchen, where the rest of the Holmes family waited for them with Rosie. For the first time in weeks, John's heart felt light, and he felt like smiling.

 **XXXXXXX**

 ***The sentences preceding the asterisks refer to John and Sherlock's visit to Siger and Mellie in sgam76's story, "A Pox on All Your Houses," which is posted on Archive of Our Own.**

 **In "The Lying Detective," the scene in which John saves Sherlock from Culverton Smith in his hospital room is followed by a scene in which the two of them talk back in Sherlock's flat; at one point during that talk, John admits to Sherlock that the latter did not kill Mary, but that Mary died saving his life. This story is set in between those two scenes.**

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